A few days ago, I listened to a video by someone who was speaking about esoteric topics, and in particular about the possible existence of individuals with non-ordinary characteristics. What struck me was not so much the subject itself, but the way it was being treated. This person offered an extremely elaborate, detailed, and apparently even profound explanation of why certain realities did or did not exist. And as I listened, I realized that this kind of explanation drew on an imaginative framework, on a set of concepts, that I knew very well, because in the past I, too, had been interested in esoteric and occult texts, and more generally in writings of spiritual significance.

The point, however, is this: this person did not present their ideas as hypotheses, as symbols, or as possible visions. No. They presented them as certainties. In other words, they did not say: “According to this school of thought…,” or: “According to this author…,” or again: “Within this tradition, it is believed that….” No, no. They spoke as though they were describing established facts. As though they truly knew, directly and beyond any doubt, the level of evolution or initiation of certain spiritual figures from the past, such as Jesus Christ or the Buddha, and the exact invisible structure of reality.

Now, as I was saying, when I was younger I, too, was fascinated by certain esoteric texts. And in some respects, I still am today. I understand very well the fascination they can exert. There are texts that are genuinely learned, layered, full of symbols, correspondences, and complex cosmologies. And compared with certain religious narratives that may appear more simplistic, they can give the impression of being somehow closer to a real understanding of the great mystery.

But this is precisely where the delicate point lies. When a story is complex, erudite, when it possesses a sophisticated language and an apparently coherent structure, we are automatically inclined to give it more credit. But complexity does not necessarily mean truth. Erudition does not necessarily mean knowledge. Coherence does not necessarily mean correspondence with reality.

Over time, I have realized something: when we read certain writings, when we spend a long time in certain environments, around certain people, and when certain concepts become exceedingly familiar to us, they begin to seem true simply because they are, precisely, familiar. Familiarity lowers our critical guard, and this, in my view, is a fundamental dynamic to understand. Because at that point we are no longer clearly distinguishing between what we truly know and what we merely imagine to be true, or hope to be true, simply because it has been told to us many times. And so certain esoteric narratives, certain so-called occult truths, which we encounter in many books and many schools, are repeated and handed down over time as though they were objective facts, even though they lie completely outside our ability to verify their reliability.

But let us ask ourselves: why should an esoteric book, the account of an occultist, contain more truth than, for example, a traditional religious text? Why should the content of a channeling, the discourse of a self-proclaimed spiritual guide, or the texts of any initiatory tradition whatsoever be taken as reliable descriptions of reality, rather than as mere imaginative constructions, or at best as metaphysical hypotheses?

Why should we consider them superior to the official texts of institutional religions? Or to the speculations of modern science, when it attempts to describe reality from a cosmic perspective? And let me be clear: I am not saying that these texts—religious, esoteric, and scientific—do not contain, within their narratives, within their myths, one might say, portions of truth, or at least interesting ways of staging the great spectacle of life. I am only saying that we need to be extremely honest. The fact that a narrative is fascinating, relatively ancient, complex, or spiritually suggestive does not make it true.

The problem, then, is not esotericism in itself, just as it is not religion or science in itself. The problem arises when a narrative is transformed into certainty without real experience, any possibility of verification, or sufficient awareness of its limits. Many people who call themselves seekers of truth often end up believing, uncritically, an unlikely story that has been told to them many times. And they often look down on those who simply adhere to a different narrative.

Perhaps the vocabulary changes. Perhaps the symbols change. Perhaps the sense of belonging changes. But the psychological mechanism, very often, remains the same. One dogma is replaced with another. One collective belief with another belief that is only apparently more sophisticated. For example, a religious authority with an esoteric authority. This is why I think we need much more discernment. More rigor. And also greater intellectual humility.

In my view, we should also learn to speak with greater precision. We should distinguish what we have truly studied and experienced from what we have merely read. We should distinguish what we observe from what we interpret. And we should distinguish what we can bear witness to from what we are simply speculating about.

Speculation is not a problem. On the contrary, speculation can be very fertile, even necessary. But we must call it by its proper name. If I am reporting an author’s idea, I must say that I am reporting an author’s idea. If I am citing content derived from a revelation, a vision, or a channeling, I must clearly say that this is what it is. And I must also add, honestly, that I have no way of establishing whether that content is true or not. This, in my view, is not only a healthier attitude, but also a more mature and responsible one. And in some respects, it is also closer to an authentically scientific and investigative spirit.

This does not mean reducing all of reality to what is already measurable or already explainable. It does not mean denying mystery. It does not mean closing oneself off in advance to deeper dimensions of experience. It does, however, mean keeping discernment alive. It means not confusing the desire to believe with the illusion of knowing. It means not mistaking familiarity for truth. It means not losing the ability to ask uncomfortable questions.

That is why I think we should all be a bit more careful, especially when we feel at home inside certain stories. Because it is precisely when a story is familiar to us, when it speaks our language, when it resonates with what we already think, that our critical spirit becomes dangerously lowered. And then it becomes very easy to believe. But the path of inquiry, if it is authentic, cannot give up discernment.

Happy searching!

P.S.: This article is based on a video of mine published on YouTube: https://youtu.be/oOpOEKZQ5ss